


Dead Boys Do (Not)

by zesulin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, this is really vague and i should be studying, tw death, tw mentions of drunk driving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:30:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zesulin/pseuds/zesulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a real shame, say the news reports. But he's an example and examples need to be made, and tragedy is fuel for reporters. One more teenager wrapped around a tree, one more teenager drunken to death, one more teen ending before anything could begin, and oh, how the media loves a heart-wrenching story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Boys Do (Not)

It's a real shame, say the news reports. But he's an example and examples need to be made, and tragedy is fuel for reporters. One more teenager wrapped around a tree, one more teenager drunken to death, one more teen ending before anything could begin, and oh, how the media loves a heart-wrenching story. 

But it is.

It really bloody is, and Enjolras doesn't know how to deal with it. Because dead teenage boys with nice hands don't smile at you every morning from the bus stop. Dead boys don't blow kisses or write notes or tentatively hold your hand even though both of you damn well know that your parents and his parents would hate you both for it. Dead boys don't lazily draw you in math class when they think you aren't looking, inky curls cascading onto pale faces that look drawn but smitten, a blush coloring their cheeks as they fight a smile when the corner of your mouth turns up. Dead boys don't make out with you in the janitor's closet when honestly, you should be getting to latin, but their mouth tastes so lovely and they smell like cigarettes and bourbon and sweat and paint and life and love. They don't do tipsy cartwheels, or convince you into going to ballet recitals, they don't have fencing competitions to kiss you after, despite their sweaty brows and short breath.

No.

Dead boys lay folded up awkwardly in a coffin with gray, drawn faces, rouge smeared onto their cheeks to make them look alive, still, soft lipstick to make their blue lips colorful again, imitating life like a cheap play. Dead boys wear black suits and black ties, dead boys hold roses to their chest instead of sunflowers extended towards you, fighting a stupid grin, peeking from behind the petals to say "hello how are you." Dead boys get lowered into gaping holes that hungrily devour caskets, eaten up by the Earth and selfishly taken.  
Dead boys don't tease you for sitting by their grave and talking like they're still there, talking like they'll listen to you and argue every point. 

(Dead boys watch while living breathing lovers stand before graves with salty eyes and cruelly bitten lips, dead boys itch for drawing implements and long to touch and taste and kiss and fuck and god, whatever else there is, dead boys regret every shot of whiskey and every inch they drove down that back road, dead boys curse trees and deer and want to scream with every minute they feel colder)  
(Dead boys don't care about the light that they come closer to with each day, dead boys hate watching their lovers grow old, they hate watching death seize another, dun dun dun, another one bites the dust, they join their friends with a giggle, but dead boys wait, and wait, and wait, and wait until the day comes. Dead boys take their lovers hands gently, smiling radiantly, and ask..."Do you permit it?")


End file.
